


Madness

by beltainefaerie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Drugged Sherlock, Dubious Consent, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Past John Watson/OFC, Telepathy, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, past John Watson/OMC - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-07 10:44:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There, just for a moment, Sherlock was sure that this was still John, when he ignored everything else and just looked into his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Consent is all over the place in this fic. Drugging is inherently non-con, but Sherlock would give his willing consent to John if he had asked, which feels more dub-con in terms of fic. There is an element of sensuality to this piece, so if you are looking for a lot of force, this isn't it.
> 
> Thanks to mistresskikisshiphassailed for her beta work. Sorry Nikki, that I have held on to this one so long!

Between the two of them, one might think that Sherlock was the Other, but the old ones were skilled at their camouflage, their subtlety and subterfuge. In short, if they generally blended in with the general population as poorly as Sherlock, they would likely have been found out long ago. But John, on the other hand…

An experiment of the old ones. A hybrid of sorts with the humans. The elder charms still held, granting him the ability to cloak, to hide, to induce amnesia or madness as required and if he was reluctant, they had their ways. 

If a few doctors and nurses seemed a bit vague or dazed, never quite recalling the details of those few days surrounding their trip to the surgery to save the gravely injured Captain John Watson, it wasn’t so very unusual. The irregular hours, the senseless violence, pressures that can only be known near the front. If one doctor had run screaming from the room and lived out his days in a quiet, padded cell, well, what could be done? Not everyone was suited for this work. Murmurs of the tragedy followed them, the surgeon who had shown such promise and his patient whose skills as a doctor and a soldier would be sorely missed. 

Captain John Watson was a fine doctor. A fine soldier. 

And he was _mostly_ human. 

And that which wasn’t, usually lay in peaceful slumber. 

Although that might seem questionable to look at him now, slits in his sides gaping open to unfurl tentacles, their slick, mottled skin shifting from ivory to crimson to the deepest purple. Some were smooth, reminiscent of vines, others lined with numerous suckers. He normally hid so well, but it was time and something in Sherlock called to him, the strength of his mind alluring. John Watson wanted with a force he had never felt before. And the deeper part of him, awakened with wonder and hope, gently murmuring, _Could this one survive, intact?_

\---  
Sherlock had thought of one more thing about the case, some point that John would want for his blog. If he insisted on writing it, the facts might as well be straight. Sherlock had already divested himself of coat, shoes and shirt, and while John was sensitive to such things sometimes, Sherlock just couldn’t be bothered with his modesty…

After opening the door, his mind went blank. Sherlock blanched, going even whiter than his usual alabaster paleness. Nothing could possibly have prepared him for what he saw when he opened the door.

It opened his mouth to speak, but this creature before him could not be John Watson. _Could it?_ Though the squealing and clicking sounds emanating from John were hardly comforting, he could hear John’s voice in his head as clear as if he had spoken aloud. An experiment, Sherlock. _Think of it as an experiment. You like those._

It was lulling. _Fascinating_ , Sherlock thought. 

_Touch_ that familiar voice bid him. And without hesitation, he stepped into the room. Reaching out his hand, Sherlock stroked tentative fingers down one fleshy tentacle. The skin was soft, lightly lubricated, more smooth than slimy, as he feared it might be, though his skin tingled faintly where it had touched. His thoughts felt fuzzy and John’s voice in his head voice seemed to swell, to double, then triple, slightly out of synch as it intoned _We have been waiting for so long._

Part of him wanted to resist, in fact, wanted to outright run. But his limbs felt heavy as the tentacles slithering over his body wrapped tightly around his torso, drawing him closer while binding his arms to his sides. 

John’s hands, the beautiful hands Sherlock had watched for months making tea, tending wounds, hands that he sometimes longed to feel doing just this, stroked down his chest, moved to the button and zip, unfastening them and dragging Sherlock’s trousers down, pants and all. But unlike any stray fantasy Sherlock may have had, these gentle hands had help from things that belonged more in one of John’s science fiction films than in this bedroom and Sherlock struggled to repress a shudder. 

He opened his mouth as though to scream, but no sound would come. Was it possible to be literally struck dumb? He thought it was just an expression. And yet, there was so much more to this feeling. Horror, yes, but still… He _did_ want John. _This was John. Wasn’t it?_

His brain tried to focus, to form some coherent thought from this. Part of him felt so very, very safe even as he shuddered. His thoughts were muddled and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus. _How could everything be simultaneously slowing down and spinning out of control._ He felt dizzy. 

It seemed to laugh, John’s rich, warm laugh. _Relax_ , it seemed to say. 

_In John’s voice._

_Inside his head._

Surely there was nothing sane about that, about any of this. There was only one possible explanation. 

_Wake up_ , Sherlock told himself firmly. _Wake up!_ He was dreaming. Clearly he fell asleep after the case was solved. He would have to examine later what caused this particular set of vivid images. 

But he didn’t awaken. 

The sensations of being wrapped and lifted were all too real. While he had always been slight of build, it was nonetheless stunning to be shifted about, lifted into the air as though his weight was completely insignificant. And _it_..John... _it_ laughed again. 

Sherlock was wrestled onto the bed, with John behind him now, two more of the muscular, writhing appendages weaving around his legs, pulling them wide. He should have been more alarmed. Thinner tentacles twisted and undulated around Sherlock’s hardening cock, suckers pulsing. The sensation was unlike anything he had experienced. Indescribable, and he was still speechless. While his mind rebelled, he couldn’t deny that it was pleasant. Luscious, even. As his eyes squeezed shut and he forced himself to focus on sensation alone, he gasped with pleasure. He was overwhelmed, overloaded with sensation. So many points of contact he could scarcely keep track. 

Some form of mucus, more viscous than he felt when he had first reached out to touch, was dripping from several of the tentacles, smoothing over his skin wherever they trailed. He felt disoriented, but unusually calm. His limbs tingled slightly. It was harder and harder to move on his own. Colors seemed brighter and the room itself almost pulsed. 

_Of course. Slight hallucinogen coupled with a mild paralytic, it seemed. Ingenious_ , he marveled, even as he knew he should feel alarm. In fact all unease seemed to be melting away. Some part of him knew it was there, but it was dull and distant. Predominantly he felt peaceful, and peculiarly aroused. 

Tentacles brushed over his arms, down his back, curling around his arms and caressing his chest, as though John wanted to touch everything at once. Two crept around Sherlock’s hips, turning him as they pulled him closer. John’s cock pressed against Sherlock as he shifted and rocked against him, rubbing against the cleft of Sherlock’s arse. 

_So beautiful_ , the words in his head, no more than a whisper. Arms gently uncoiled, settling him on the bed. They contracted and undulated, turning Sherlock to face John. His warm, kind eyes opened wide, searching his, their bright cerulean barely visible, pupils blown wide in obvious pleasure. Lips parted just so, he looked at once overwhelmed and in awe. His hands caressed Sherlock, fingers trailing down one cheek and over Sherlock’s full lips, before he cupped his jaw, leaning in for a kiss. 

There, just for a moment, Sherlock was sure that this was still John, when he ignored everything else and just looked into his eyes. _John?_ Sherlock thought, wide-eyed and utterly bewildered as fingers and tentacles alike brushed over him. Flicking the tightened buds of his nipples. Sherlock shivered at the touch, warmth flooding through him, already so hard he ached.

_I’m here._ came John’s reply, steadying and soothing in this madness. The tentacles uncoiled, releasing Sherlock’s arms as John leaned in for a kiss. John’s hips bucked against him, sliding their rigid pricks together, making Sherlock gasp in his arms. Tentacles unfurled, teasing, stroking, wriggling in between them. One wrapped around the hard length of their cocks, pressing them together, slicking them delightfully. Both sighed with pleasure as John alternated long pulls with rhythmic undulation. 

However, the substance secreted by this being he had formerly known as John Watson, did not seem to include a numbing agent. More's the pity. Sherlock was perfectly aware when the pain began. An arm darted forward, it’s tip glowing with an eerie blue light. It elongated as it stroked along his side, unfailingly seeking out the space just below his ribs. It’s warmth intensified, brightened to a searing burn and Sherlock tried to shift away. The arms tightened their hold as the hectocotylus slid inside, writhing its way within him, tearing through the hazy euphoria, and Sherlock began to scream. Whatever it had drugged him with was not sufficient to push pain of this magnitude into the background. 

Sherlock’s screams were swiftly muffled as a thick tentacle slid into his mouth, rubbery and soft against his tongue, but pleasantly warm. _Shh… I have you, Love. It is all fine._ John’s voice echoed in his head. Lulling and calming, an almost pleading edge creeping in as he added, _You’ll be fine._

He felt foggier already. The tentacle filling his mouth slid gently in and out. Suck he was commanded and he did. Rich, viscous liquid filled his mouth, earthy and briny. He struggled to swallow, a few drops escaping, coal-dark drips sliding down his chin and dotting his chest. 

The floating, blissful feeling heightened and the pain receded, as tentacles writhed and rippled against him, caressing his belly, thighs, sliding into the cleft of his arse to stroke the sensitive ridges of his puckered hole. _Yes_ , Sherlock thought, shifting weakly in the arms as the first tendril began working into his arse, gently fucking him open. 

Adrift in sensation, Sherlock felt lost. John’s lips at his throat, his cock sliding against Sherlock’s. He had lost count of the tentacles holding him, petting, stroking, filling him. He continued to suck, letting himself be rocked between the arm filling his mouth and the slippery appendage writhing in his arse, contracting and thickening. Another tentacle joined the first, the two sliding together at first, then just slightly out of sync. If he had the capacity to move, Sherlock would have pressed back against them, his whole being crying out _yes…more…there,_ but he couldn’t and the sounds he made were inarticulate at best. Words drifted through his consciousness, but his actual vocalizations were raw, uncontrolled. 

John’s hips bucked against him with greater urgency, the grasp of the tentacle encircling their cocks tightening, as its insistent strokes quickened. Sherlock began to shudder, his breath harsh and ragged as he came, with John just moments behind. His vision clouded and he was scarcely aware as the hectocotylus withdrew from his side. 

_Sleep,_ came John’s voice again. _You know you need it. Sleep._

_So many questions, John, so much I don’t…_ but Sherlock couldn’t help his eyes sliding closed. 

\---  
John cradled him in his arms, carrying Sherlock to the shower. _Sleep_ he breathed as Sherlock stirred uneasily. He bathed them both carefully as Sherlock slumbered. 

He would never forgive himself if this didn’t work, if this broke the greatest man he had ever known. But there was a biological imperative he couldn’t escape. The undying pull to procreate, to propagate the species, especially if you are the only one left. 

Even if you are only a discarded experiment. 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock awoke, tucked into the soft clean sheets of his bed, the room darkened. His head ached, he felt sore everywhere. He winced as he tried to turn over, instinctively bringing his hand to his side. His fingertips palpated the area as he looked. The bruise felt deep.

 _When did that happen?_ His head felt muddled as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, calling “John?”

“Oh, Sherlock, you shouldn’t be up yet,” John said as he walked in, bringing a glass of water and two paracetamol and dropping them into his palm. When Sherlock had swallowed, he added, “I figured you’d need those. How are you feeling?”

Taking back the glass, their fingertips brushed and a thousand sights and sensations flooded back, ripping through the haze that clouded his memories.

Sherlock stumbled back. “John.. you’re... we... I…” he was flustered, stammering. He had to get control of himself, but it was all too much.

 _Sh… Sherlock. Everything is fine_ , he heard echoing in his mind.

 _Is he doing that now? Is it just memory?_ Sherlock could almost feel a tentacle stroking his cheek, and he went very still, his jaw clenching as he simultaneously fought the knowledge that this was not happening now and resisted the urge to lean into a phantom.

He blinked, swallowing down the madness that threatened. His disciplined mind would not give in to it, nor succumb to the haze of sleep and forgetting that tried to envelop him.

“John?” Here, solid, _normal_ , John. He reached out, cautiously stroking his fingers over John’s arm.

“Yes, Sherlock?” he responded, looking so completely like his usual self. A bit concerned, but that was par for the course with the dear Dr. Watson.

 _Can you still hear me?_ Sherlock thought.

 _Yes. It will fade._ John’s voice in his head edged with sadness.

 _Sleep_ , Sherlock heard, louder now, taking on the layered effect from the night before. A multitude of voices rather than merely John, intoning, _All a dream, really. A strange, strange dream_.

“No,” Sherlock said sharply, and the voices stilled, but everything felt like static in his brain, his thoughts disjointed.

John looked up, startled. _Could he resist it?_ No one had before and John had tried very, very hard not to think about whether they could, focusing instead on the fact that they felt willing at the time, and forgot afterwards. His felt such relief wash over him, as though something heavy was lifted from him. Perhaps the others could have as well.

Sherlock kept trying to begin. _When … was this the right moment? How? Are you actually John Watson? Did we? Incredible sex last night? And oh, by the way, am I now bearing some kind of spawn?_

Sherlock laughed, then. It was all too ridiculous. “John, have we been drugged?”

John actually blushed slightly as he managed, “In a manner of speaking.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you want a bit more of John's history here you go. if you are holding out for more tentacle sex or mpreg I swear I'll post ch 4 and 5 eventually.

At some point he must have sat down on the edge of the bed, He was there now, with John. 

Sherlock tried to stand up again, leaning towards the _table sitting light thing?_

“Did you want the lamp on, Sherlock?” John asked, the ghost of a smile.

Sherlock yawned, then closed his eyes for a moment. _Bed? Just in bed, but so many pillows. Warmth and comfort and...Should sleep…._

Suddenly, he shook his head as though to shake off the fog of drowsiness, willing himself to stay awake. “What happened? How…?,” Sherlock gestured vaguely, “What happened?” he repeated, then glared. He never repeated himself. He just wasn’t feeling himself at all. He nearly remembered… something. The hairs on the back of his neck and arms raised and he wanted to shiver at the sensation, overcome with an ominous sense like he was being watched. And then he did remember just a bit. He and John had… surely that was a dream. Silken touches and the taste of brine on his tongue. Sherlock blinked. _What are you?_

John smiled, but there wasn’t any humour in it. He answered softly, preferring to speak for the moment. “There isn’t really a name. Not that I know, anyway. They are old. Older than most things. Older than humans by far.” 

_We_ buzzed and resonated in their minds, but John shook it off. 

“Not _we_.” John said emphatically, “ _I_ didn’t exist then. _I_ wasn’t brought about until much, much later.” 

A soft, sibilant sound filled their ears, no more than a rustling, but somehow it conveyed a rather begrudging acquiescence.

“They claim me as it suits them. _We_ when they want to share my thoughts, learn about humanity, meddle in my affairs. As soon as they remember the failures, nearly getting myself killed with my foolish _human_ choices, the inability to choose a viable mate, I am right back to _it_ , when I’m thought of at all.” His eyes were filled with sadness, his voice quieting. “At first they chose. What did I know at 14? Every 7 years since it has happened. I can sometimes delay it, sometimes guide it, but I can’t ever stop it. Inevitable. Like the moon cycles. Or the tides“ 

Sherlock wondered if they had always been willing, but in a rare moment, he let compassion interfere with seeking data and actually tried not to ask. 

“I can still hear you, you know. Here,” John said, touching the center of Sherlock’s forehead lightly. “It will be easier.“

Sherlock closed his eyes and _saw_. A girl, maybe 12 or 13, lay on a bed, golden hair fanned on her pillow like some Sleeping Beauty in blue jeans. As John, he leaned down to kiss her still lips, and Sherlock felt John’s rising panic and revulsion at what _they_ wanted of him. He turned and fled, climbing out the girl’s bedroom window. 

“Julie was lulled to sleep first. They thought if she remembered anything at all it would seem a dream. But _We_ discovered I couldn’t... well... function in that situation. Not understanding, they decided that I must reach maturity later than they thought. At least I wasn’t compelled to try again that cycle.”

Sherlock felt disoriented, travelling through John’s memories. 

He had been celebrating his 21st birthday on the beach with Jeff, a companion and sometimes more, though they’d never called it anything. Certainly not anything as exclusive or sentimental as boyfriends. But still, they had taken the secluded beach as a romantic opportunity and somewhere along the line, John had blacked out. Coming to with the sharp scent of copper and a sickly sticky feeling on his skin, the sound of the waves too loud in his ears. The sand looked like something out of _a penny dreadful_ , Sherlock thought, while John overlaid _a Stephen King novel_. 

Sherlock could feel John crawling away, the sand harsh and abrasive beneath his hands toward the ocean where he retched and bathed, letting the ocean rinse away the sick and gore. He crept onto an outcropping of rock, hugging knees to chest, his whole body wracked with sobs. Tears blurred his vision as the tide came in, already lapping at the edges of the blood-soaked blanket. He stayed there for hours, watching as the ocean carried everything away. He crawled back toward the blanket and laid still, willing the tide to carry him away too. Drown him like the monster he was. But try as he might, even when he walked out into the water, he always ended up back on the shore. 

The beach faded out and Sherlock became aware of the sheets balled up in his fists, the dull glow of the bedside lamp John must have turned on. 

John shuddered and fell silent a moment, before adding, “The police assumed Jeff had run away. Tough family. I might have encouraged the theory. How could I have explained?

“After that, I learned to shift at my will not theirs, experimented with delicacy of touch, with control. If their pattern held, I had seven years to get it down. It was a delicate balance learning to control it. I had spent so long trying to suppress it, I hadn’t mastered the physical form at all.  
When I was secure and alone, I shifted, and practiced until I could pick up anything with the tentacles. I could sip tea from bone china, cook with ripe peaches or tomatoes without bruising or damaging them. And, of course, I sought every bit of knowledge on human body. I poured over medical texts.”

“It influenced your decision to become a doctor.” Sherlock said.

It wasn’t much of a leap to deduce. “It did,” John said, “ _They_ might not value human life but _I_ do. I saved a lot of lives compared to those they took, but once I could effectively shift outside of the mating cycle I discovered that it was about more than physical control. Unfortunately, just seeing my true form is enough to drive most people over the edge and, they generally don’t make it back. After a few unfortunate incidents, I went back to suppressing the urges, remaining as close to human as I get. 

“The last cycle happened when Susan and I had been dating anyway.” Sherlock caught a flash of light brown hair. Bright blue eyes, crinkled with her laughter that seemed somehow deeply personal. A private moment. Sherlock felt a stab of jealousy at the intimacy tinging the memories, not exactly helped by John’s next words. “It turned out, she couldn’t get enough of me in any form, but would forget. Whenever I wasn’t… well, she just didn’t know it anymore in the between times. We seemed quite the normal couple before the pregnancy. Then, the little ones drove her mad from within, before she could carry to term. She couldn’t handle the voices and at last...” Tears began to fall as he whispered,”They wanted the sea and couldn’t understand that she had never learnt to swim.” 

Sherlock touched the bruise in his side absently, wondering. 

“And then last night,” He faltered for a moment, couldn’t bring himself to speak of it aloud. _With you it is all consuming. I’ve been falling in love since I met you. I didn’t understand it, hell, I barely realized it, but this, my mating cycle, has turned a slow burn into a forest fire._

John cleared his throat and went back to speaking aloud. “I’ve never told anyone all this, but delete it. Delete it all. I know you can. Probably better than we could erase it for you. You didn’t ask for this, you didn’t want this. They, _we_ , make people do things. But I can’t do that to you and I can’t control this. If it works, God knows what will happen. If it fails, they’ll use me to keep trying and…” John was shaking, hands balling into fists at his sides. He couldn’t fight this. 

“ _Delete it_? You can’t be serious, John,” Sherlock began quietly. “Never. This is part of you. And you absolutely mustn’t leave. You can’t! I need you here.” He could barely hear John’s thoughts any more. It was fading, but he hoped that John could hear him, or read between the words, hear in the hitch in his breath, those little tells that said _I’ve never deleted anything about you. I don’t care about weirdness or history and would go into your arms willingly right now, however many there are. I need you. You are essential, not just to the Work, but to me. You aren’t just my blogger or my assistant or a replacement for the skull. No one else can do what you do. This is your place, with me_. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it. Long guarded against sentiment, it didn’t come easily now. But he hoped. Hoped that John understood, perhaps he even heard, all that he couldn’t say. 

And he must have, because he wrapped Sherlock in his arms and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.

“God, Sherlock, what are we going to do?” 

Sherlock smiled wryly up at him. "Like everything else, we’ll work it out. Together.”


End file.
